A Week Prior to the night of "The Kiss"
Voldemort's secret hideout, small house with a giant marble skull on the front door in a graveyard of great significance.
"Speak, witch," He hisses from his cold marble throne. Nagini is twisted atop the high-back, resting against her Master's shoulders. Her tongue slides lazily in and out of her mouth.
"There's a new prophecy, my Lord," Bellatrix's fevered gaze is greedy for His attention and for this single moment she has it.
"… and what does this have to do with me?" impatience colors His inquiry.
"There is a female Slytherin heir who is fated to be your greatest weapon against The Chosen One, My Lord," Bella's eyes are shining with excitement.
"Where did you learn of this?" comes His hissed reply.
Bellatrix sends Him an audacious smile as she genuflects, arms outstretched, inviting Him inside her head. Her gaze locks with His in such intense intimacy it seems obscene to witness the exchange. Her smile widens as she stares at the Dark Lord with lustful abandon. He chides her softly as he sifts through her scattered thoughts.
"Poking around in your sister's memories, Bellatrix? Dastardly of you. Nevertheless, it seems you've happened on a gold mine… A previously unknown line… seemingly sired by my unfortunate relation now unearthed by the young Malfoy brat. How surprisingly resourceful your nephew is revealing himself to be. And here I thought I was the only Slytherin heir worthy of claiming Salazar's legacy."
Voldemort's lipless grin splits his snake-like visage, a knowing gleam in his evil slitted orbs. Even Bellatrix appears confused by his sudden good humor. His villainous laughter booms, startling the handful of Death Eaters in the room.
"At last, the seed that had been planted has finally come to fruition. You-" He points a spindly finger in the general direction of his assembled group of followers who turn avidly toward Him with lowered gaze. "Find this half-blood child and bring her to me. Look in Muggle London. Her name is Emmanuelle Muestilde."
One of the Death Eaters whips his head up to meet his Master's stare. Voldemort's grin transforms into a malevolent sneer, "Yes, Yaxley. You and I know her father."
The Death Eaters whisk themselves away as Voldemort sends himself into yet another gale of echoing empty laughter. Bellatrix stares at Him with wary confusion.
Had He plucked the girl's name from her mind even though she has no memory of ever knowing it?
POV: Harry
Upon Hermione's arrival to Gryffindor Tower after leaving Draco and Ron
She comes into the common room, book bag thrown carelessly over her shoulder, looking flushed and out of sorts. I find myself smiling at her. She looks a bit dazed, the corner of her mouth tugging upward, and there's something else in her look that I can't place. I watch her absently touch her finger to her lips, gliding it along the bottom one. Her eyelids flutter closed for a moment and she wears a look of secret pleasure. It's an unguarded moment that I'm certain she wouldn't want anyone to see.
"Hermione!" I call out, drawing her attention toward me. She jumps a little and I flinch as her eyes shutter her emotions away from me. This extra caution of hers is my fault, I know, and I continue to wonder desperately how I will undo the harm I'd done to our now wobbly friendship.
From my spot sitting on the floor, I watch her carefully fix a plastic smile on her face before turning to fully greet me.
"Hi, Harry."
This two word reply is a vast improvement from her overly polite civility and outright avoidance of me since Ron and I returned from the Burrow. I've been trying to make up for all the wrongs by staying out of her way, but nearly a month of this is too much and the idea of going on like this for much longer seems too terrible a burden to bear. I feel shut out of the growing friendship between her and Ron and resentful that I'm unwelcome to share in their easy laughter and quiet conversations.
I still can't think of Malfoy without wanting to hurt the bugger, so I try to pretend the Slytherin doesn't exist.
"Will you sit a spell, Hermione?"
I watch her hesitate, biting her lower lip, which is the only evidence that she is carefully considering the repercussions of each of the actions open to her.
"Just sit with me for a minute, Hermione," I urge. "I promise I won't do anything stupid. I just... I just wanted to spend some time with you. For old time's sake."
She wavers visibly, then on a sigh, walks over to the the overstuffed loveseat that I am leaning my back on, drops her bag on the floor, and slides onto the crimson cushions.
"What are you still doing up, Harry?"
"Homework. I have to catch up in Potions and Defense Against the Dark Arts," I grumble. "Snape's still after me and I just realized that referencing the Half-Blood Prince's self-made brews set the bar too high for me to reach on my own. I can't seem to meet Slughorn's expectations of me with only my brainpower. This is the third time I've re-written this essay."
"Shall I have a look?"
"No, but thanks all the same," I say, happy that she'd offered her help when I thought for sure she'd launch into one of her overworn I-told-you-so lectures. "It seems like you're doing a lot of studying yourself, Hermione. I don't want to bother you with my assignments. I brought it on myself, so you know... I ought to take care of it myself."
"That's big of you," she replies meaningfully, "but you don't have to do everything yourself, you know."
From the corner of my eye, I watch her slouch into the couch, her head rests on the back of it, a faraway look on her face. She hasn't looked this contented all term. I absently wonder who helped place that peace and joy there. I have a sickening feeling that it's probably best I don't know.
"Do you miss us, Hermione?"
"What do you mean, Harry?"
"You know, us — Ron. You. Me. Just us?"
She's silent a moment, mulling over my question.
"Yes, sometimes I wish it could be like old times with the three of us giving the professors conniption fits while we help you fight the megalomaniac," she chuckles softly and is silent again.
On a sigh she continues, "But hormones make things complicated, Harry, don't they? It's hard to be the us we were with you kissing me, but truly wanting Ginny. And, when we all thought he fancied me, Ron's off snogging Lavender and who knows who else. Then, of course, there's me—"
"You?"
"Well, yes, I've made it all the more complicated by involving... Malfoy, haven't I?" she admits softly, a worried note in her voice.
"That's the understatement of the century, Hermione," I say with some light derision. I decide for now to ignore her assumptions about my feelings for Ginny. Instead, I turn half-way to look at her with one eye. "I am sorry for everything I've said and done to the Ferret, Hermione."
She casts me a doubtful look.
"For most everything this term, anyway," I qualify, more earnestly, "but I honestly don't understand the fascination. What is it about him? Why Malfoy?" I struggle to keep the hurt from my question. "Wait, Hermione, never mind. Don't answer that."
It seems she's decided to ignore my last request when after a minute of quiet contemplation she replies, "You know me and my soft spot for lost causes, Harry."
I turn more fully around to look at her. She's laying on her back, staring at the ceiling as she's often done when we're the last students in the common room. Her shapely legs are slung over the couch's arms. She's moved so that her fragrant head of hair is next to the back of mine. The sweet tantalizing scent of her drives me to distraction. "Maybe it's the possibility of Malfoy's redemption, Harry. I don't know. He's just interesting and clever and worthy of forgiveness. There's something about hi—."
"And what am I to you, Hermione?" I interrupt, tuning away from her again so I don't see how she physically reacts to my quietly-asked question. Part of the reason I'd thrown out my inquiry was to stop her annoying recital of the things she finds admirable in the Slytherin, the sight of whom I can't stomach.
I listen to her shift behind me. I suck in my breath, when I feel the shock of her arms suddenly wrap around my neck and chest in one of her bone-crushing hugs that I've missed so terribly. Her tumble of hair surrounds me and I feel the press of her jaw against my temple. I'm dumbfounded, shocked that somehow, without truly trying, I've managed to find myself back in her good graces.
"You will always be Harry to me," she whispers, sending a delighted thrill through me. "You're so… you, Harry. I can't really explain it. I feel so good when we are together like this, and I just know that I will always love you... even when you are an unbelievable git."
My heart is warmed to hear of her love for me despite this rocky school term and the immense damage I'd done to our friendship. Perhaps it is not the sort of love I want her to feel for me, but I do have this one vow from her. And I know a promise from Hermione is one set for life. I'd warrant that it's more than she's ever given to Malfoy. This thought gives me some consolation. I've half-convinced myself that if the two of us spend more time together, like we have tonight, the friendly love she has for me will have a chance to blossom into something more.
"Hermione—"
"Stop, Harry," she pleads, her arms tighten around me and I forget what I am about to say. "Let's start over, alright? You and I are best friends, Harry. I will do everything in my power to support you in whatever your next trials will be. You can trust me with your life and I promise to do everything in my power to keep you safe. Always."
I am amused by her take charge intensity. Typical Hermione.
"Do you trust me, Harry? Even with Malfoy in my life and things still a bit strained between you and me, do you still trust me?"
"Yes, Hermione, of course I do," I answer without thinking, my lips brush against her forearm.
"Harry, I've been thinking."
I close my eyes to these words and feel her take in a deep breath before she continues. This sort of precursor is never good coming from her. I brace myself as I listen to her new thoughts.
"I believe you've simply convinced yourself that you love me like a girlfriend. I know it's Ginny whom you really fancy. You're just confused right now, mostly because I'm the only girl you've truly been able to talk to. I'm sure if you just talk to Ginny..."
"No, Hermione. I am not confused," I say tightly, trying to keep my anger at her denial of my feelings in check. This is the know-it-all part of her that I find so aggravating.
"I think maybe, it's you who is confused, Hermione. You see, I don't believe you can really love someone who needs to be saved. That's not an enduring kind of love. That sort passes after the cause is won." I press the side of my head to hers and place my hands on her arms, keeping her close. "I want you to understand that as far as I'm concerned, you don't have to save me. The one thing that I'd like you to think about, though, is what you just told me. I want you to think about this love you have for me.
"Do you know what I find interesting, Hermione?" I add, purposely using the word she'd used to describe the traits that keeps her straying back to Malfoy. "I think it's most interesting that you can so easily tell me that you love me. Can you tell him that so easily?"
I turn my head towards her while her arms are still loosely wound around my neck. She has gone curiously still. I place a chaste kiss on her cheek. She stiffens slightly at the touch. I push softly against her embrace and the comfort of her arms silently drops away. I turn to stand and gather my things with an Accio. I look down and cast her a lingering smile, loving the sight of her flyaway hair strewn carelessly over the sofa's cushions.
"What's more, Hermione, I'm curious as to whether you find it at all interesting that I am just as comfortable telling you that I love you, too? I wonder, has he been able to tell you the same and truly mean it as I do?"
She stares at me owlishly, stunned, I think. I lean down to stroke her hair without truly attempting to tame her wild waves. When she still hasn't said anything, I gently brush my palm against her cheek.
"Goodnight, Hermione," I say quietly. "I do love you, you know, and you will always be Hermione to me, no matter how stubborn you are. I've missed us— just the you and me part— more than I think you'll ever know."
As I turn away from her to make my way back toward the boy's dormitory, I catch her barely audible, "Oh, Harry."
Trudging up the stairs, I can't help but send a smile towards her again.
POV: Draco
At the gargoyle guarding the Headmaster's Office
"Acid Pops," Weasley says, staring squarely at Dumbledore's stony-faced office guard. We wait for the statue of the gargoyle to leap away but nothing happens.
"Acid Pops!" he tries again, more loudly this time, casting me a look of consternation.
Still nothing.
"Weasley, are you quite sure you heard Snape correctly?"
"Yes, he said, 'Acid Pops,'" The redhead asserts. He tilts his head up suddenly, appearing to contemplate the ceiling. "I think that's what..."
I let out an aggrieved sigh.
Think. Think.
"Lemon Drop," I say with surprising conviction. The words force their way out of my mouth as soon as they pop into my head.
The gargoyle leaps aside with such suddenness that we both take a step backward.
Of course THAT would work. Something rolls in the pit of my stomach. I have the distinct feeling that I am going to dislike this upcoming meeting very, very much.
As the wall behind it splits in two to reveal the revolving stone staircase, I send Weasley an annoyed glare.
"What! At least I knew it was two words!"
I don't bother to roll my eyes skyward, I just push him along so he is the first to capture a step on the moving spiral staircase.
"Ah, Mr. Weasley... and you've brought along Mr. Malfoy. Splendid. Splendid."
Snape is standing at the mantel. The headmaster sits behind his desk, sending us his welcome. As we step foot on the main level, he gestures toward the several armchairs in the room.
"Sit, boys."
I take a chair furthest from the desk and I watch Weasley consider one closer, but he chooses the one within arm's length of mine. I can watch him from the corner of my eye and do so. I am not so quick to disguise my contempt for Snape and stop myself from staring daggers at the two-faced Slytherin Head while Dumbledore speaks.
"I am of the understanding that you have been conducting some extra credit work for Professor Snape in the study of the Defense Against Dark Arts, and that Miss Granger is also part of this extra-curricular activity, Mr. Malfoy? Mr. Weasley?"
I say nothing, but Weasley, who is ever-trusting nods his head, vigorously. I reach over and knock his elbow off the armchair. He turns to me and I sneer at him, a silent warning to shut the hell up. His eyes widen, realizing he'd done something stupid.
Idiot Gryffindor!
"Mr. Malfoy, I see you are still suspicious of The Order's involvement in your life," Dumbledore says, "It is understandable that you are distrusting, particularly since your Mother's safety hinges on your choices. I do not blame you, but time is of the essence and I must somehow win your trust… and do so very quickly." He stops to stare at me. I turn away. "I believe, Mr. Malfoy, that I must speak plainly this evening."
Thank goodness, I think. My muddled brain would not be able to withstand the Headmaster's ambiguity tonight. Even so, I stiffen as he moves to standing. He bends down and lifts a small box from a drawer and places it on his desktop. Then he trains his bright blue, unwavering gaze on me again.
Exposed.
I do not like this feeling.
"Mr. Malfoy, I know of the prophecy that Lucius gave you before he was taken to Azkaban."
I whip my head toward Snape to send him an accusatory glare.
"No, Draco. I knew of the prophecy long before Professor Snape ever did."
I turn slowly back to the sight of Dumbledore, now beside his desk. My gaze narrows to take in only the intense blue of his eyes. I want to fully examine in those depths the veracity of the Headmaster's unbelievable claim.
"Draco, I was the one who discovered it."
Weasley gasps for the both of us. I don't look in my contemporary's direction and for once am thankful for the brutal training I'd received to forever be in control of my emotional responses. It gives me a moment to think about how this knew knowledge affects me.
I shift back into my chair, draw an ankle to my knee and settle lazily into the cradle of the seat. I carefully place an insolent smile on my face. My fingertips meet and my thumb pads press against one another, helping me to focus my thoughts.
Perhaps this is not so bad after all.
"Well, then, Professor Dumbledore, that is a relief," I say loudly, startling both Weasley and Snape. "Now you can tell Granger that she shouldn't go on with her harebrained scheme to visit Voldemort." A loud harrumph interrupts me. Snape's dark gaze burrows into me. I snort indelicately and continue. "It appears I've used the wrong title and discontented my mentor," I say sneeringly at Snape. "In any case, Granger will no longer have to meet The Dark Lord and we can work on retrieving the real Slytherin heir from the Muggle world. If you know about the prophecy, you know where to find the girl?"
"I do beg your pardon, Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore begins, a puzzled look on his face, aimed at... curious... Weasley, "but don't you know—"
A sudden wind in the room throws the papers on the Headmaster's desk into the air. I turn to look at Weasley and am shocked to discover Ron holding out his wand and muttering something that keeps the strong breeze blowing in the office.
"Mr. Weasley!" shouts Snape.
"I'm s-s-sorry, Professor, I don't know what's come over me."
I want to kick the redhead for his interference. But at the sight of the less than subtle non-verbal warnings Ron sends out to both professors, I quickly observe that I am the only one in the room without all of the facts.
"You were saying, Professor?" I prod more deliberately, gritting my teeth.
"Mr. Malfoy, has Miss Granger explained the importance of her role in all of th—"
Mid-sentence, Dumbledore averts his attention to the box on the desk which has suddenly come to life. It rattles and lifts from the desktop, light pours from it and there seems to be a muffled yelling coming from inside. Whatever is housed within wants desperately to escape its confines.
I catch Dumbeldore's worried glance at Snape and the younger professor's half-shrug in response. Ron, too, seems to have deflated into his chair, though he seems somewhat interested in the now rocking box. I sit up, eager to discover what this might reveal. The Headmaster reaches over and picks the box up. He lifts the lid and a nearly hoarse masculine voice roars up from the inside.
"-lbus! Albus! They've taken her! They've taken Emmanuelle!"
I look to Snape for explanation but find the professor staring into the flames in the floo.
"Leo, find calm," Dumbledore says gently, staring at whomever he's speaking to. "Tell me, who has taken her."
"The slaves of The Dark Lord!" comes the shouted reply. "His Death Eaters have taken Emmanuelle!"
A cold chill sweeps over me during the moment of silence in which I listen to the labored breathing coming from the box. Is this the very same Emmanuelle? The squib? Hermione's friend?
Suddenly there emanates a loud squeak, a masculine sound, but similar to the one Hermione makes when she realizes she's forgotten something of great importance.
"What of Hermione, Albus! Tell me that she's safe as well!"
I turn to look at Ron who's gone so shockingly white that his freckles appear suspended from his face. Then, I look to Snape whose mouth hangs uncharacteristically agape as he attempts to hide his reaction from me by turning to stare at Dumbledore.
Something is very wrong here.
"Professor Dumbledore," I ask with a voice as strong as I can muster. "May I ask to whom are you speaking?"
The Headmaster lifts his head to make eye contact and seems somewhat confused about what he should do.
"Who is speaking, Albus?" the perturbed query comes from the box. "I'd like to see."
Dumbledore seems to have gotten over his indecision. He turns and lifts the frame from its box, settling it on the edge of his desk
"This, Mr. Muestilde, is Draco Malfoy, the boy I've spoken to you about," the Headmaster says. "And Draco, this is Mr. Leopolde Muestilde... Miss Granger's grandfather."
I sit straighter in my chair and look to Weasley. I watch him lift his hands to cover his eyes. He shakes his head with a moan. I feel Snape scrutinizing my every move. I avoid his gaze in case he is trying to read my memories. I turn to look at the small portrait on the desk and Accio it to the small table in front of me. Despite my shock at the introduction, I recognize this man as a much older version of the silent young prefect in the Ravenclaw portrait. He has a mess of white tumbleweed hair that might have at one time been a dark chestnut brown.
"Good evening, Sir," I say politely into the frame. "Perhaps you might be Aiden Muestilde's... father?" I inquire lightly, hiding the roiling anger building inside at the secrets Hermione has likely been keeping from me considering her great insistence at confronting Voldemort. "Do you happen to know the Grangers?"
"I do not. That is to say, we are not close. But, yes, I am Aiden's father… but Aiden… he is..." his voice quakes and a sob is barely restrained.
"Leo?" Dumbledore asks concerned, still standing behind the frame.
"Aiden was hexed, fighting to protect Emmanuelle. We don't know what sort of spell hit him. Thanks be that it wasn't the Avada. He's at St. Mungo's. He isn't well, Albus. He was fighting to protect her. He'd seen it coming. He was a Seer, you know. I came after Caroline called. Of course he and the other aurors did all they could to protect her," Mr. Muestilde's voice shakes as he babbles almost nonsensically. "It's not right that a father should outlive his son. I pray the Healers will be able to save him. Before slipping into a coma, Aiden's last words to Caroline were to watch Hermione. Caroline, of course, doesn't know what to make of it. She just thought that I should know. Is she alright?"
Everyone appears flummoxed at the query.
I'm still raging at Hermione for her lack of confidence in me to tell me of her ancestry, as convoluted as it seems to me at the moment. And, I can't even begin to explain my anger at the three others in the room. I want to stalk out of the office and leave this mess to them. I want to deny all parts of my involvement in this impending disaster that may claim my life and that of so many other innocents.
Unfortunately, I make the mistake of looking at the man in the portrait. His face is pressed up so closely that his hair is no longer in the frame. He looks wildly worried for Hermione, a girl I am guessing he's only lately learned is his. The very same girl I've only just learned could also be mine.
Resignedly, I put my hand in my trouser pocket to grasp onto the twin of the flower I hope is still hanging around her neck. I close my eyes for a moment and see an image of her laying on a couch in the Gryffindor common room.
"Hermione is perfectly fine, Sir," I say confidently, pausing to take in the relief in his eyes. "And, be assured, Mr. Muestilde, she is ready to fight for the safe return of Emmanuelle. I have..." I turn to Ron and then back at the man in the frame, "We have helped to train her, along with Professor Snape."
There is a pregnant pause as he surveys me.
"And you, my boy? Are you prepared to fight for my granddaughter's safety?"
Which granddaughter? I think lamely as I feel four pairs of eyes staring expectantly at me.
He pulls back and I can see him again. A wizard. A magical grandfather, but a Muggle, I'll bet. This confusion I have surrounding Hermione fills me. How much does she know of this? How much has she been keeping from me? I feel a desperate need to sort it all out.
But judging from the piteous looks Ron attempts to hide from my view, I know she is not innocent, that Hermione, in fact, knows the lot of it. The deep, agony I feel just from the possibility of such deception is highly alarming. It threatens to suffocate me.
She is a LIAR! SHE IS A LIAR! After all her holier-than-thou insistence that I bare my soul and secrets to the most powerful member of The Order, she deigns to keep this earth-tiltling information from me? And, I am to learn of her betrayal in this way? With every man in the room knowing of my obvious ignorance of the central role she plays in this prophecy?
The heat of anger and some humiliation roars up inside of me. I feel my fury sparking at my fingertips.
Suddenly, a touch of sanity enters my head. It must be Snape. He is pulling up my memories of her, filling my mind with her, despite my desire to beat them all back. The remembered image of her at work in the potions classroom calms me like a salve. Memories of her act as a fire retardant that throws cool water over this inferno of rage that threatens to consume. I suspect Snape knows this.
I look helplessly at him now, the man who has tortured Hermione so thoroughly. He'd been training her for her destiny, a fate everyone but I had been privy to. I want to shout at my godfather for leading me into this trap that has me dangling between filial duty and this itchy, uncomfortable bundle of feelings for a girl that only last year I wanted to squash like a bug.
I look at Ron, her friend, and now to some degree also mine. He has acted as confidante to the both of us. He has helped me learn aggressive bright magic that repels all the dark that might swallow her up on this quest. And Ron has taught me something of myself that I could not have learned within a classroom. And wonders of wonders, I find myself unwillingly grateful for the redhead's interference in my life.
Then, I look at Dumbledore who is the mastermind of this chess game. As I gaze at the enigma of him, I cannot decide between the feelings of resentment or awe. My tired mind tells me it is quite alright to feel both.
At last, I finally rest my eyes on the man in the portrait claiming to be Hermione's grandfather. He is silently taking measure of me.
His unruly wild hair reminds me of Hermione and I am once again filled with unbidden thoughts of her. A Gryffindor, but Slytherin by blood? I bite back a curse that stems from a deeper hurt inside my chest.
Betrayal. A whimper escapes me. I only know this because out of the corner of my eye I see Ron turn sharply to ensure my wellness.
Images of her continue to torment me. I remember the feel of Hermione in my arms. I relish the sound of her needy gasp at my touch. I hold onto the heavenly memory her lips upon mine, and even though I am infuriated beyond belief at her hypocrisy, I know there is no turning away from this mission now. I have made my choices and, come hell or high-water, I know there is no room for the legendary cowardice that has all my life marked me as a Malfoy.
So, I look squarely into the eyes of this man, this magical relation of hers and answer him.
"Mr. Muestilde, please call me Draco. And, yes, Sir… I am ready to fight for her safety." I continue to press my fingertips and thumbs together, gathering some previously untapped strength from a deeper part of me. I turn to survey the other men in the room. "Have we a plan?"